


i will make you believe you are lovely

by nightwideopen



Category: Marvel
Genre: Bingo, Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019, Clint Barton Bingo 2019, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Cuddles, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Head Injury, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Self deprecating language, injuries, medically induced coma, supportive boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19117684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: That’s everything he’s ever worked for, everything he’s worth. If he can’t shoot, if he’s not the world’s greatest marksman then what is he? He’s not Hawkeye, he’s not an Avenger. Without his bow, he’s just Clint Barton. And what’s that good for?





	i will make you believe you are lovely

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I'm ultimately happy with how this turned out. (there's just not enough bucky). but I think it's okay. I love clint barton.
> 
> this is not canon compliant with anything. just that usual mcu divergence where 616 clint lives with the mcu avengers.
> 
> this isn't necessarily important to the story but just for reference clint doesn't have interchangeable hearing aids and communication devices, because the comms don't double as aids they just transmit the feed directly into his ear and then he wears one regular hearing aid in his other ear for external sound. I know this is probably not helpful because of depth and distance perception of sound but... I only thought of that after I had finished and I didn't know how to amend that. my bad.
> 
> this was beta'd by grammarly so all mistakes are their fault lol
> 
> Title from Lovely by twenty one pilots
> 
> **CBB Square filled: Injuries**
> 
> **BBB Square filled: Coma**

“H…”

Static hisses in Clint’s comms, barely registering.

“.... -ou copy?”

More static.

“-awkeye… there?”

More static after that. Then it finally levels out. 

“Hawkeye, can you hear me?”

Clint groans. Bad idea. There’s an elephant sitting on him, there has to be. Or the Hulk. Or Thor dropped Mjolnir on him and walked away. Whatever it is, _something_ is weighing on Clint’s chest and making it hard for him to breathe. His head is pounding and he’s not sure if his eyes are still closed or not. What the hell happened?

“Hello?” he tries. His lungs hurt something fierce. Worse than that time in the Himalayas. “Tasha?”

His comms buzz back to life and Natasha’s voice fills his ears. Well, ear. 

“Clint? Are you alright? We’re coming to get you, stay put, okay?”

“I don’t think…” Clint groans again, straining against the weight on him. His whole body lights up with pain enough to make his eyes water. “Don’t think I have much choice.”

After a few more shallow breaths, Clint opens his eyes. It’s too dark; he should’ve kept them closed. He realizes now that he’s pinned down and it all comes rushing back in screaming color. There was a bomb at the base of the building and Steve was adamant that it wouldn’t hold. He’d felt it shake, all eighty stories, and he'd heard the windows shattering and he _gave_ the team a heads up that he had to jump. He thought Tony was going to catch him. Or Thor, or Sam, or Hulk, he thought–

Clearly, he thought wrong, and now he’s trapped somewhere in the rubble of it all, blood in his mouth and a lungful of dust.

“Guys?” His voice comes out more panicked than he’d like. But it’s sufficient; he’s panicking. “Can someone tell me–” Clint gasps. “Someone talk to me, please?”

“Hey, Hawkeye, can you hear me?”

It’s Steve. But Steve’s voice isn’t helping. He just starts rattling off how far away they are, keeps asking Clint to breathe, to stay calm. Steve should know better than that, they all should. Natasha eventually chimes in, tells Steve to shut the fuck up, but not even that makes the fear of not getting out of here any easier. Clint takes deep gasping breaths that are only hindered by the _building_ on his chest. He knows his ribs are broken, hopes that one of them doesn’t puncture one of his lungs. Clint idly runs his tongue over his teeth, momentarily appeased by the fact that apparently none of them got knocked out in the fall. At least after this, he’ll still have his million dollar smile. 

Eventually, Clint can’t take it. He asks the age-old question. 

“Where’s Bucky? Please tell me he’s okay.”

Silence falls over the comms. It’s just static again.

“He’s fine,” Steve says calmly. “His earpiece broke, but he’ll be here when we get to you. Stay still, okay? We gotta make sure nothing gets dislodged and sends all the debris–”

“Steve!”

“Sorry.”

Clint tunes them out as they start to bicker, telling Tony to hurry up and telling Thor to _not do anything_. He sort of wishes they’d just let Thor and the Hulk smash through the glass and metal and concrete and just get him out of here as quickly as possible, damn the risks. But Steve wouldn’t let that happen. He’s so boring. 

“Clint? Hawkeye? You there?”

It takes a second for Clint to realize that he’s actually hearing the voice through his hearing aid and not over the comms. 

“Tony?”

He cracks his eye open and sure enough, there’s a huge shift, a burst of light, and a red gauntlet reaching out for him. 

“Can’t move, Tony. Ribs.” He coughs dangerously. “I can’t breathe.”

“For fuck’s sake, Stark, what’s taking so long?”

Clint would know that growling voice anywhere. 

“Hold your horses, Soldier. We move anything that’s holding anything _else_ in place and we risk serious damage. Friday, scan his vital organs for internal bleeding, tears, bruising etcetera. Any immediately pressing issues?”

Clint doesn’t hear Friday’s findings, but if Tony’s muttered swearing is anything to go by, it’s not good news.

“What’s the verdict? ‘m I gonna die?”

“ _Clint_ ,” Bucky snarls from somewhere behind Tony, “For the love of God–”

Clint can’t help but laugh. It hurts, but it slips out anyway. “Relax, Bucko, you can’t get rid of me that easy.”

When Bucky comes into to view to help Tony strategically maneuver the debris, he looks frazzled. And murderous. He looks more shaken than he did that time a dinosaur ate Clint’s favorite bow and nearly took Clint’s head with it. They tell him not to move, to keep breathing and he resists the urge to snark at them. Bucky goes from grumbling and angry to a mother hen and manages to press a few fleeting kisses to Clint’s forehead. Clint hopes he doesn’t die, he wants more kisses than that. He wants _better_ kisses than that. 

“Okay,” Tony says to Bucky, “When I lift this beam here, you gotta press down on the cut as tight as you can. You can’t be afraid of hurting him, okay? Clint, I’ll give you a bit of a local anesthetic but it’s gonna hurt like hell. But you both have to suck it up unless you want me mopping up your guts instead, got it?”

The two of them nod dejectedly. 

“Alright, here we go, deep breaths everybody.”

—

Clint wakes up coughing, his throat dry and his ribs aching. Bucky’s in his face in an instant, all worried eyes and fretting hands. He’s signing frantically, but he’s still new to it and he’s too nervous to form any coherent signs. Clint firmly takes Bucky’s hands in his, trying to will him to slow down. He taps at one ear, and Bucky hands over his hearing aids lightning fast. 

“Hey, _hey_. I’m okay,” he says as gently as he can. “Did I pass out?”

“Fortunately.” Bucky nods, visibly relaxing as the rasp in Clint’s voice smoothes out. “I wouldn’t have been able to deal with your whining.”

“You like my whining.”

“I hate your whining,” Bucky says, climbing into the bed, “I like _you_.”

Clint takes stock of the fact that he’s in his own room, catalogs the various places that he itches where there are probably stitches and staples and bandages and disinfectant. His head hurts all the way around, and he knows he’s not going to be allowed out any time soon.

“I know you do, Buck. I like you, too.”

Bucky rests his chin on Clint’s chest and smiles.

“What, no lecture?”

Bucky just shakes his head, closes the distance between them to kiss Clint soft and sweet.

Clint certainly doesn’t complain about the ensuing kisses, but he also doesn’t like the fact that Bucky’s being so quiet. He isn’t visibly angry or annoyed or trying to tell Clint that he’s an idiot for getting himself injured. He’s just watching Clint, moves when Clint sits up and hands him the glass of water on the bedside table. There’s a straw in it and everything. It’s one of the wiggly ones that take a million years to actually get any liquid out of but is fun to watch. Clint’s favorite is the red one that’s shaped like a star, and that’s the one that’s in the cup. It reminds him of Bucky’s old arm. The loud one that always gave away his position.

Bucky helps him lie back down, takes Clint’s open-armed invitation and pulls the blanket up to their chins. He holds Clint tight, not tight enough to cause any pain to his injuries, but as tight as he can. It’s nice. Even still, Bucky’s relative silence and his clinginess don't sit well with Clint. He realizes with sudden clarity what happened.

“How long was I out?” he asks cautiously. 

Bucky mumbles into Clint’s shoulder, “Two weeks.”

“It was really bad, wasn’t it?”

They’re both clearly being too careful to show their real reactions to what happened, and either Bucky doesn’t want to scare Clint, or he doesn’t want Clint to know just how scared _he_ was. Clint sure as hell knows that those are his own reasons.

“Concussion, broken ankle, internal bleeding, lacerations and bruises, four fractured ribs,” Bucky rattles off, monotone, “Almost punctured your lung. Not to mention that gaping hole in your stomach. You were in surgery for a while. They put you in the coma so you could heal up a bit.”

Clint winces, grateful that Bucky can’t see. He can feel his throat tighten up, tears threatening to spill. He hasn’t been hurt this bad since the time he broke a leg and both of his arms. Since he lost his hearing for good. 

“Aw, come on.” He tries to play it off, putting a laugh into his voice. “You know I’ve had worse–”

“I had to keep your intestines from spilling out into my _hands_ , Clint. It’s not fucking funny.”

Clint doubles back, stunned into silence. Bucky’s right. This isn’t funny. Clint is lucky to be alive.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Bucky sighs. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry, I was just scared. Get some sleep, we’ll get breakfast tomorrow from that diner you like.”

He says it with an air of finality but he should know better that Clint has to have the last word. He pulls Bucky closer, ignoring his body’s protests. Bucky goes easily, pressing his nose to Clint’s neck and clearly needing the comfort. It’s always backward with them, the injured one having to give the reassurance. Clint doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind the pain or the fact that Bucky’s upset; he’d be the same way. But still, he wants to relinquish it. He doesn’t want Bucky to feel like that, not when he knows it firsthand.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’ll take a little while to mend, a few weeks before he’s hobbling around when he should be in bed, a few months before he’s cleared for duty again. He’s going to be insufferable, so this is the least he can do in the wake of it all.

“I take it you’re the one that convinced them to let me come home?”

“It was more of a light kidnapping. Sam helped.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Bucky kisses Clint’s jaw softly. “Go to sleep.”

Gladly, Clint does. 

—

Bucky does get breakfast the next morning, has it delivered to the Tower and deposited into the elevator for Bucky to retrieve when Friday tells them that it’s arrived at Clint’s floor. They do that for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a few weeks until Clint has to start physical therapy. It’s hell, but he needs his ankle – and wrist, he finds out – in the best shape he can get them, especially since they’ve both been broken before. Luckily that’s only a couple of hours a day, and the rest of his time can be spent with Bucky and Lucky and maybe Natasha if she’s not busy. Tony sends Dum-E to be his personal butler and Katie stops by to check up on him. It’s nice, odd in the way that he’s letting himself be taken care of, but he enjoys the attention nonetheless.

He thinks they all feel guilty about not being there to catch him.

Bucky notices because of course he does. He corners Clint while he’s lounging on the couch half on his phone and half watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ as per Friday’s recommendation. Bucky pats Lucky’s head where he’s draped across Clint and settles in the seat opposite them.

“You’re being awfully docile about all the coddling that’s going on.”

“Yeah.” Clint kicks weakly at him with his newly cast-free foot. He skips the pretense of banter. “It’s pretty obvious that everyone was really worried. No one would be going the extra mile to coddle me if it wasn’t serious; I mean, I’m in the hospital after like, every mission. But this… this was different.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, it was.”

He shoos Lucky away and takes his place over Clint, still being extra careful around the spot where Clint’s insides almost became outsides. It’s warm, and it’s safe, and it’s the only place Clint wants to be right now. He traces the slope of Bucky’s nose with one knuckle, takes Bucky’s face in one hand and tangles the other in his short hair. 

“ _You-u-u should_ ,” Clint singsongs in a made-up tune, “ _Ki-i-i-ss me-e-e-e.”_

Bucky laughs one of those laughs that means he thinks Clint is being ridiculous and endearing all at once. Score. Clint is going to get those kisses. 

“Alright Mr. One Hit Wonder, I’ll get right on that.”

—

The day that Clint gets cleared for duty, a portal opens in the middle of Chicago and half of the Titanic falls through with about three different alien species fighting over the goddamned fucking Tesseract. 

If Clint didn’t know better, he’d tell Tony to check Friday for any security breaches. But as it stands, it’s less of a surveillance issue than it is that trouble has a sort of sixth sense for when everyone’s ready to go ‘round again. Usually, it aims for birthdays, holidays, general vacation times, but those aren’t for a while. So, the next best thing. 

He hasn’t even had a chance to get down to the range yet, to dust off the metaphorical cobwebs off of his previously sprained wrist. Or to test out the weight his ankle can take in a combat situation. But he supposes there’s no time like the present. Like riding a bike, right? They’ll probably put him on sniper duty anyway.

The city gets cleared of civilians pretty quickly, and by the time the quinjet lands in Grant Park it’s just the three small armies versus each other versus the Avengers and Clint is ready to kick some intergalactic ass. 

The Tesseract can be their makeshift trophy.

Tony grabs Clint by his ankle – he’s careful to make sure that it’s not the recently broken one – and drops him on the roof of the Art Institute. It’s the perfect vantage point, there’s a light breeze from Lake Michigan, and he can see the gleam of Bucky’s arm and the periodic electrical shock from Natasha’s bites. Light reflects neatly off of Steve’s shield, Sam’s wings, Thor’s hammer. He’s got his team in his sights, and he’s ready to be their sniper, to watch their backs from a distance. 

Clint nocks an arrow when he sees a… he doesn’t know what kind of alien, they’re too hard to tell apart and he didn’t have time to study. Whatever it is, it’s charging at Bucky from behind while Bucky’s busy trying to wrangle two other aliens out of the shipwreck and away from where Tony is trying to get to the Tesseract inside. 

He’s got it. He aims, he releases, he–

He misses?

He misses.

Clint misses.

He frantically sends another arrow where the alien is closing in on Bucky and he– he misses _again_. 

“Buck, behind you!” he warns.

He cuts someone off with his frantic outburst and all the usual battle chatter falls silent.

Bucky manages to turn just in time and take all three of the aliens down. It’s… it’s not what was supposed to happen. But Bucky’s okay and that’s– Clint is supposed to have his back. Even from here, Clint can see the odd look Bucky sends him. Neither of them says anything. The chatter resumes. 

Clint tries again.

And he misses.

He tries again. And again and again and again and he keeps missing his mark and he’s–

“Guys. I can’t fucking _shoot_. I keep. I–” He can’t breathe. “I can’t help, it’s. I’m coming down–”

“Woah, Hawkeye. You know we need your eyes, stay put. Call it when you see it.”

“No. _No._ ” He frantically looks for a way down. The wind has started to pick up. “I’ll be more useful on the ground. I can’t protect you guys from up here. If I can’t shoot, I can’t– It’ll be better if I– Someone just come get me!”

Suddenly Sam is in front of him, backlit by the fight going on below. He looks worried. Clint doesn’t like that. 

“Barton,” his voice comes through the comms because the wind has gotten so loud. Or maybe it’s just the rush of blood in Clint’s ears. “If you can’t chill out you’re gonna have to sit and wait. We can’t have you freaking out on the field.”

Clint growls, squinting against the sun at Sam. “Just swap me and Bucky. I’m no good up here.”

“No time,” Steve chimes in. “We’re all preoccupied, we need Falcon down here, now. Do what you can.”

Being as Cap is the only one that Sam listens to direct orders from, he soars off without another word, leaving Clint on the rooftop, angry and confused. _Why_ can’t he hit his mark? He’s gone longer than a few months without shooting, he’s never forgotten how to hit a target under pressure. His bow suddenly feels out of place in his hands, his quiver an uncomfortable weight on his back. Everything narrows down to this moment here, this uncertainty, the knowledge that he can’t protect his team from this distance. He’s supposed to be a sniper, he’s supposed to be an _Avenger_.

—

Clint manages to do his job because he’s nothing if not a professional when it boils down to a crisis. He turns his brain off and focuses hard. There are some close calls, but no one gets hurt, and within a few hours the Tesseract is secure and they’re clear to go home. The moment Coulson waves them off, Clint stalks back to the quinjet, locks himself in his weapons locker and lets his brain come back online. He sinks to the floor, replaying the shots he took. He’d done it how he’s always done it, on autopilot. But he’d missed. Every time. 

It’s a nightmare; Clint’s biggest fear come true.

How fucking hard had he hit his head?

—

“Knock knock.”

Clint doesn’t move from where his head is buried in his knees, doesn’t make a sound. It’s Bucky, knocking gently with his vibranium fingers that clang against the door to the locker. It slides open after a moment, and Bucky’s crouching down in front of him.

“Hey,” he says gently. “What happened?”

Clint shakes his head. He doesn’t fucking know.

“You wanna come over to the front? It’s more comfortable.”

“Don’t wanna see anybody,” Clint mumbles petulantly. 

If he’s going to pout like a child it’s going to be where Tony can’t make any quips and Sam can’t give him that look _._ The one that plain as day says _grow up, Barton._ He’s fine here, thank you very much.

“Okay.” The locker door slides closed, Bucky still inside. “Mind if I stay, then?”

Clint relents, chasing the solid warmth of Bucky’s arms around him. He’s going to cry in a bit, there’s no doubt about that, because Bucky is going to make him explain what’s going on, and saying the words out loud is going to make this whole thing real. And then there won’t be any stopping the waterworks. 

So he cuts to the chase; might as well get it over with before they get home.

“I think…” He’s already had too much time to mull this over. “The accident. When I hit my head. Must’ve been worse than all the times before, must’ve shaken the motor skills right out of my _head–_ ”

“Clint?” 

Bucky’s words are doused with worry, even muffled by Clint’s hair.

“I can’t shoot, Buck. I missed. I missed them all and I don’t think it was just ‘cos I’m rusty or-or my wrist, I. I _never–_ ” he chokes on the words a bit. “I never miss.”

“Shh. Hey, it’s okay. You’re not one hundred percent yet, we got called out unexpectedly. It’s _Chicago._ There were a million factors.” 

Clint scoffs. “Factors that I can account for in my _sleep_. I can calculate wind gusts better than I can tell time,” he insists. “I’ve gone over a year without a bow before I could afford a new one and _never_ missed like that. Something’s wrong, Buck. Something’s really wrong.”

He buries his face in Bucky’s chest, silently begging him not to say anything. He doesn’t need empty words and comforts, he needs–

Bucky presses a kiss to the top of Clint’s head. 

“We’ll get on the range when we get back home and you’ll blow me out of the water, okay?”

“Okay.”

Bucky always knows what he needs.

—

The range is empty like it always is at two in the afternoon. Bucky prefers it at three in the morning, Sam at seven, Natasha at ten. Clint’s range time gets logged after he drags himself out of bed well into the day and after a substantial helping of caffeine. The mission had them called out at an ungodly hour, and by the time Clint stumbled out of the shower – upon Bucky’s advice – and into the familiar open space, it’s about Clint’s regular time to shoot.

“Hey Friday,” he greets flatly. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Barton. Will you and Mr. Barnes be competing today? Would you like the usual set up?”

Clint’s heart stutters, nervous. “Yeah. Something simple, please. He’ll be down in a–”

The door _whoosh_ es open behind him, revealing a soft, pajama’d Bucky with his rifle in his arms. It’s one of the ones he’d actually used in the war that Tony bought from the Smithsonian for Bucky’s last birthday. It was Clint’s idea, and he’d chipped in about four dollars, and Bucky uses it when he’s feeling nostalgic. He says it feels more right in his hands than any of the new hi-tech guns that are designed to improve accuracy ever will. Clint suspects he just likes to show off with it. It also gives Clint _feelings_. Very complicated feelings about a young Sergeant James Barnes. 

“Ready?” Bucky says, with a confident smirk that he pairs with an effortless swagger.

If Clint wasn’t so scared that his most recent concussion had knocked his body’s archery skills right out of his brain, he’d probably request that they forgo target practice altogether. As it is, he nods shakily and adjusts his grip on the riser of his bow. He’d snapped on a hip quiver for this, he’s not about to fuck it up.

“Slow and steady,” he reminds Friday.

Friday sets up two stationary targets fifty meters away, side by side and waits for them. Well, for Clint. It’s slow going, for him to calm his breathing and draw an arrow from his quiver. The nock against the string clicks in time with the stutter of his heart. Friday waits. And Bucky waits. And Clint waits for this to stop feeling like the scariest moment of his life and to start feeling like the familiar moment where he can check out of his head before the arrow hits the bullseye with a satisfying _thunk_. 

Bucky rests a hand on Clint’s shoulder, and it startles him. His eyes don’t pass judgment, just hold that same warm encouragement that they always do whenever Clint is in a tight spot, emotionally speaking. 

Clint hopes that his comfort helps Bucky half as much as Bucky’s helps Clint. He’s not much the caretaker type, can barely take care of Lucky on a bad day. But Bucky always makes him want to try. And he does try his goddamn best. So that he can be there when Bucky needs him. 

“You got this,” Bucky says. 

Clint’s arm is to starting to shake where he’s got his bowstring drawn.

“But what if I–”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

Clint nods. “Okay.”

_The wire tenses._

_Slow your breathing._

_— relax your hand —_

The arrow sails five inches off his mark and Clint stares, stunned. Two more arrows, one more, three more. They all fly off course, and when the last arrow in his quiver clatters uselessly to the floor because he couldn't summon the strength to draw back far enough, he nearly falls with it. Frustration bubbles in his chest and escapes in the form of a guttural yell, and when he slams his bow against the ground, the string snaps off and lashes him right on the bridge of his nose. He does fall to the ground, then, clutching his face and trying to keep the tears from spilling from his watering eyes. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers helplessly, defeated. 

That’s everything he’s ever worked for, everything he’s worth. If he can’t shoot, if he’s not the world’s greatest marksman then what is he? He’s not Hawkeye, he’s not an Avenger. Without his bow, he’s just Clint Barton. And what’s that good for?

He doesn’t realize that he can’t breathe until he hears Bucky telling him to. Bucky is right there with him on the ground, holding him tight and saying it’s going to be okay. But it’s not, it’s _not_ and Clint tells him so.

“How is this _ever_ going to be okay? I can’t– I can’t do _anything_ else. I’m– _Shit._ ”

“Clint,” Bucky says very seriously. “What are you–?”

Clint forcefully shakes his head to shut Bucky up.

“Don’t make me say it,” he begs. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Clint says more forcefully. He gets up, anger and shame making him run hot. Rationale leaves him, and in turn, he leaves Bucky peering up at him confused. He gestures wildly at the door. “Just– just leave me alone if you’re gonna make fun. Just fucking go, alright?”

Bucky is all earnest eyes and hopeful hands when he gets to his feet and reclaims the distance between them. He holds Clint’s face in his hands so that Clint can’t hide his tears, can’t hide the fact that his biggest fear has become a reality and it’s tearing him up inside. 

“I’m _not_ ,” Bucky says just as forcefully. “I just can’t fuckin’ believe that you’re gonna stand here and imply that you’re useless if you can’t shoot. That’s bullshit and I won’t stand for it.”

“But I–”

“No. Listen to me, you unbelievable asshole. You’re worth so much more than your abilities. Do you know that?” Bucky moves his hands to Clint’s shoulders, jostling him a little like he’s trying to shake some sense into him. “You’re so fucking smart and integral to the team. You’re still wicked in hand-to-hand, you’ve got stealth skills for days. And even without counting all the things you contribute as an Avenger, you’re still fuckin’ worthy of being here because you’re an amazing friend and person. You’re like, so fucking loyal, and you’d die for any of us just as quick and you’d kill for us. You do the right thing every damn day, and you’re so funny and sweet. I love you, you giant fucking idiot. You don’t need to be a perfect shot to be worth something.”

Clint thinks Bucky is done when he brings his hands back to Clint’s cheeks and presses their foreheads together. Clint doesn’t know what to do. He can’t breathe all over again. He’s overwhelmed, touched by sentiment to his very bones. His love for this man runs through his veins and he hadn’t been entirely convinced that it was reciprocated until now. Holy shit. 

And Bucky just keeps going.

“And I know it’s important to you. I know it’s a huge part of who you are and has been for a long time. But it’s not all you are, is my point. You’re so much more. _So_ much more.” His voice drops, low and intense, so close that he’s practically speaking into Clint’s mouth. “I know you don’t believe me. I know it’s hard. I know this is shitty and I’m so sorry. But just try, okay?”

Clint nods shakily, breathing shallowly. 

“Awesome,” Bucky says conclusively. He kisses Clint for good measure. “Now let’s get you to a goddamn doctor for a head scan.”

—

After several MRIs and CAT scans and one EEG, the tests come up inconclusive. There’s no significant brain damage that explains why only one skill noticeably fell right out of Clint’s head and muscle memory. The only thing the doctors _can_ conclude is that there’s nothing hindering Clint from relearning how to shoot his bow. Only time will tell if he’ll be able to reach his previous skill level or not. 

Bucky holds his hand the entire time, threatens to rehash his speech afterward when he sees the slump in Clint’s shoulders. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he promises.

Clint does his best to believe him.

Bucky brings his bow back to him from the range, restrung and ready to use. The silent vow that he’ll be there every agonizing step of the way is enough for Clint to overlap Bucky’s hand on the riser and use it to pull him in for a hug. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into the soft grey of Bucky’s hoodie. Times like this he wishes he wasn’t the taller one, he just wants to curl up real small and let Bucky take care of him. “Love you.”

Bucky returns the sentiment by scratching his vibranium fingers in Clint’s hair and tugging him closer like he’s wishing the same thing.

“Love you too,” he says. “You giant idiot.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/616clint).  
> This is my [Tumblr](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com).  
> And here is a [shareable post](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com/post/185412419384) for this fic.  
> Comments and kudos are beyond appreciated. Thank you for reading!


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